


and so we begin

by Issay



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Falling In Love, First Meetings, Fluff, Multi, Political Campaigns, Romantic Fluff, Short & Sweet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-01
Updated: 2017-07-01
Packaged: 2018-11-21 22:18:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11366775
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Issay/pseuds/Issay
Summary: Campaign trail is madness and chaos and order and endless discussions on the bus, over greasy burgers and even greasier fries in some diner on the way, on the floor of the hotel lobby at three in the morning.





	and so we begin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [maryabolkonskaya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/maryabolkonskaya/gifts).



> hclemadge,  
> I've played around with the prompt and had some fun with it. I hope you'll enjoy the outcome! :)

When they make a first step on the Washington For President  2020 campaign trail, Alexander has no idea what to expect. He’s young, he’s inexperienced, he’s one of the speechwriters – straight out of university, top of his class, a brilliant mind that got headhunted the minute he graduated. Sure, he knows the basics: itinerary (goes to hell after first five hours when George spends an additional hour in a small military base lost somewhere in Nebraska), list of people going, list of people staying, his seat on one of the buses. But that’s it. Alexander looks at the blue-green banners with catchphrases and logos and expects to be amazed.

The reality is so much better than he thought it would be.

Campaign trail is madness and chaos and order and endless discussions on the bus, over greasy burgers and even greasier fries in some diner on the way, on the floor of the hotel lobby at three in the morning. Alexander discusses the role of moral imperative in modern lawmaking and the impact of cute pics with little kids in social media on the outcome of elections. He talks economics and law, sociology and crowd engineering, philosophy and history and politics. He argues with Lafayette about what to do with the mess that is Medicaid, thoroughly ruined by the guy impeached at the end of his presidency, and his buddies. Alex sings “It’s a Long Way to Tipperary”  when they’re driving through the night heading to Oklahoma City and John Laurens applauds while Angelica Schuyler and Dolley Madison sing along, as off-key as it gets. He laughs and gets passionate, he argues and makes notes for future articles to be written. He thrives.

At this point he doesn’t even know how long they’ve been on the road, weeks? Months? It doesn’t matter. Campaign trail means shows in barely tepid water in bathrooms one refuses to examine too closely out of fear of finding something living under the sink. It’s too much coffee and too little sleep, too many greasy meals in diners and eternal love for drycleaners. Alex writes a victory speech. He writes a concession speech. He rewrites them both countless times, until Hercules takes away his laptop and hands him a beer.

“Drink up, junior,” Mulligan says, his booming voice easily rising above the sounds of noisy bar. “Only seven weeks to go.”

He drinks up.

*

They meet for the first time some week later. At first, he doesn’t notice her – the ballroom this fundraiser takes place is huge, the music is too loud and Alex probably had already one glass of champagne too many. He moves through the crowd, barely seeing familiar faces among the strangers: but he does see the bane of his existence, Aaron Burr, aide to the future Chief of Staff, dancing with some governor’s wife. George and Martha, of course, hold court in the middle of the room but Alexander ignores them for the time being, he doesn’t like the person Washington becomes in public. It an opinion he’ll never voice, obviously, but an opinion nonetheless.

Alexander smiles at Angelica, all in splendid oranges and pinks, dragging a laughing woman in a pretty blue dress. When he gets a good look at the woman’s face, Alex’s breath catches.

She’s the most beautiful creature in this room.

Angelica notices – of course, Angelica notices absolutely everything because that’s who she is – and sashays towards him, the angel-like stranger in tow.

“Alexander,” she begins, the tone of her voice sweet and innocent, Alex knows her too well. She’s planning something. He doesn’t care. “This is Elizabeth, my sister, our new PR aide. Eliza, this is Alexander Hamilton, our resident genius . Now, I have someone I have to meet so… well, I’ll leave you to it!”

She leaves them and moves through the crowd towards amused-looking Maria Reynolds, rumor is she’s Angie’s new girlfriend but Alexander doesn’t care right now. He doesn’t because Eliza’s eyes are deep, deep blue and his heart is pounding, and somehow her fingers tangle in with his.

That’s how it starts.

*

They spend the rest of that night in a small garden on the roof of the hotel – Alexander won’t be able to tell later even in which state it was or how much money did the fundraiser make them. All he knows is that after he managed to say something smarter than “you’re so beautiful, marry me”, Eliza has proven herself as smart as her sister. She dragged him through a discussion about citizen uprisings (“you can’t tell me with a straight face that singing about hanging people on streetlamps is a sign of a healthy change in society, Alexander!”) and in turn he talked about the importance of acknowledging that even in times of war with terror all people have basic rights (“we can’t continue torturing people for information on foreign soil, it’s just fucking shameful”).

She leaves just before dawn with a small, chaste kiss on his lips and he just stands there, on the roof of a hotel, dazed and confused as to what had just happened.

Angelica pounces on his three hours later when they’re on the bus again, trying to get some sleep and maybe some coffee.

“So?” She demands, eyes bright and excited, dropping onto the seat right next to him. “How was it?”

“It was… God, Angie. It was perfect and wonderful and I think I’m in love with your sister, you meddling little horror.”

She laughs at that, loudly so several people sitting in the vicinity shush her. Angelica pays them no mind.

“I’ve always wanted to have a brother,” she says conversationally and writers a string of numbers on the side of another draft on concession speech he’s been working on (he took to paper so that Hercules can’t take all of it away). “Her phone number. I assume you didn’t think about asking her for it?”

Alexander would flip her away but he’s too busy reaching for his smartphone and typing a message.

*

Later, the members of this presidential campaign would talk about the countless times they’ve found Alexander and Eliza snuggled somewhere, discussing civic duty or economy of small farms in Nebraska. Angelica would talk about seeing her sister wrapped in Alex’s cardigans, slowly stealing them for herself. Hercules could tell you about how Hamilton stopped rewriting speeches and started writing lengthy e-mails, or how multiple pages of paper gave their life to Alexander’s need to write love letters in the old-fashioned way.

Lafayette promised he wouldn’t breathe a word to anyone but there was a day in New Orleans Hamilton dragged him away to the jewelers’ district and demanded help choosing a ring. Lafayette would also never say this but he thought the boy’s struggle to find a pretty but moderately expensive ring to be kind of sweet so he helped him as much as he could, haggling over price in soft French.

But if you want to know, you should ask George Washington.

On the evening of the elections, George Washington, freshly chosen  46th President of the United States of America, took Hamilton to the side and whispered a few kind, fatherly words into the young man’s ear. The gist of it? Well. “Get your shit together, boy” was the closest to it.

So when George Washington was humbly accepting the choice of the people, somewhere in the shadows of back corridors of the arena, Alexander Hamilton got on one knee and asked the most important question of his life.

The rest, as you know, is probably history.


End file.
